Shadows of Aroma
The harbor city of Aroma was a stunningly beautiful place. The deep blue sky sparkled like sapphires, and the sea responded in kind with waves of jade-green luster.
The docks teemed with fishing boats and cargo ships coming and going, and with commerce so thriving, trucks and people swarmed like ants.
The hardworking folk all bore traces of fatigue, yet smiles lingered on their lips no less. They clung to the hope that tomorrow would be better than today if they just kept pushing.
From afar, it resembled a painting, but up close, shadows slithered out from behind the light.
In a dark alley near the docks, two burly, rough-faced men dragged a dwarf by the arm and hurled him out like trash. The dwarf, hollow-eyed and drooling, couldn't even resist.
He hit the ground headfirst but flailed his hands toward the thugs as if it didn't hurt a bit.
“Ugh...”
“We told you to scram if you got no money. What you ponied up today ain't enough—go scrape more together.”
“Please... my body's shaking too bad... Just this once. Let it slide, and I'll pay double next time.”
As the dwarf crawled forward and latched onto their legs, the bald thug drew a hefty pistol from his belt.
“Wanna test me?”
“S-sorry.”
“Think we're cutting you slack out of old times' sake!”
The thug bellowed at the dwarf's retreating back, then started holstering his gun—only to frown at the approaching group.
“What now?”
“From Nobak Clinic.”
“Look kinda young. First one without a proper beard.”
At that, the thug's eyes emitted a blue glow—verifying Allen's words via comms. Those with simultaneous brain expansion and artificial eye implants could converse this way or even access the net.
“Kid sent ya? Shoulda forwarded pics so I wouldn't bother calling. Fine, cut the line.”
The glow faded from his eyes as his focus shifted to Allen and the workers armed with guns. They startled and gripped their weapons tighter, but the thug just snorted.
“You even know how to pull the trigger? Our turf anyway—why haul those heavy things around...”
“There was a raid the other day.”
“...Raid?”
“Yeah. Heard our assistants and workers got jumped by outsiders.”
“Oh, yeah. Now it rings a bell. Follow me.”
The thug spun on his heel and crooked a finger for them to trail. Allen glanced at his back for a moment before following at a measured pace.
The alley's interior was cleaner than expected—no puddles, not even a stray cigarette butt.
They treasure their lair, huh?
Trailing the thug, Allen descended a staircase. At a thick iron door, the thug's eyes glowed again, and with a mechanical rumble, the passage slid open.
With club hours over, the interior was quieter than anticipated. Only the occasional shuffle of cartel goons prowling the halls echoed through.
The thug ushered Allen into a room near the entrance, sparsely furnished with just a square table.
“Wait here—they'll show if they need ya. Kill time and head out.”
“No inspection?”
“Visits from kids like you are mostly checkups, not repairs. Proper fixes are at the clinic with the boss.”
“If it's fixable here, no need to drag all the way to the clinic. That left elbow's probably bothering you...”
“Huh, how'd you know?”
“The sound's off.”
“Heh. Spot that just by listening? Means you're confident in your skills.”
Chuckling dryly, the thug—who'd nearly left—turned back and plopped down at the table, laying his left arm atop it.
“Weird kid. Give it a shot.”
“Understood.”
“But do they have to stick around?”
The thug glared at the workers. They'd lit their eyes to observe the repair closely, but it irked him.
“Send 'em out? Like my mutts waiting for chow. One pair of eyes is plenty.”
It sounded like a suggestion but carried the weight of a command. The workers hid their disappointment and filed out.
This suited Allen perfectly. He'd been pondering how to dismiss them himself, but the thug had handed him the excuse. All for preparations toward freedom.
Allen stripped the synthetic skin with his tools and disassembled the prosthetic arm in seconds.
“Whoa. Fast.”
Even a thug seasoned in dismantling people was impressed by the speed.
Allen gently scraped the mana circuit with an awl. These circuits mixed copper with mana stone dust—metal extended the lifespan of engraved rune letters, while the stones amplified effects.
Silver or true silver would conduct mana far better, but a mere cartel grunt wouldn't wield gear that pricey.
“Awl for what? That safe?”
“Dirt builds up over time. Meticulous cleaning like this extends life and ensures it works in a pinch.”
Allen brushed the interior with a fine tool, casual truth laced with deception. Dust and circuit flecks piled on the table.
His impassive face and steady hands oddly instilled trust in the thug.
“Reminds me of the old pharmacist back home. Seemed half-assed with his diagnoses, but always nailed it.”
“Kind words, thank you.”
Allen replied while tightening the joint screws. Scraping the circuit had slashed the arm's lifespan, but by then, he'd be long gone—no issue.
The thug flexed his freshly cleaned arm, testing it.
“Used to grind every time I bent the elbow—smooth now. Saved me time. Thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
If anything, Allen was grateful. Word must've spread from the thug; more members trickled in than expected, netting him extra dust each time.
Back at the clinic, Allen headed to the warehouse dubbed the "trash bin." He loaded the collected dust into a cartridge and slotted it behind a pen-like tool.
A "rune pen." Grip it, infuse mana, or press the button, and the cartridge material melted, flowing along the nib.
Allen engraved a [Flame] rune letter on a thin steel plate, then scattered them via recon golem through the vents.
He wanted to etch runes on the engine room's mana generators and batteries too—but that required convincing one person.
Vito. He still handled measuring the mana flows shifting in Allen's body during battery charging.
“Whatcha doing?”
Vito had trailed Allen to the warehouse, right on cue.
“Keep hitting the trash bin lately. Made some fun toy? Kids used to tinker— all vanished. Junk's junk for a reason.”
“Toy... apt way to put it.”
“Don't play me.”
Vito whispered, voice as low as it went.
“Others might buy it, but not you. You're scheming something.”
“...”
“Forgot what I told ya?”
“Every idiot who tried unlocking the collar magnetically ended up dead.”
“Right. So what're you thinking?”
Vito stared, baffled. Allen's shadowed face and unfocused eyes revealed nothing.
“Damn poker face. Ever heard of smiling?”
“Knew it once. Shame there's no call for it these days.”
His expression showed no regret whatsoever. Vito thumped his own chest in frustration.
“What do you want? You flashed that signal to call me out for a reason.”
“Take a look.”
Allen pulled the [Flame]-engraved plate from his pocket. Vito flinched at the sight.
“Flame? What if it catches fire?”
“Needs serious impact to ignite. Safe.”
“Hold up—since when can you handle rune letters? You said you couldn't before. Hah, like you'd spill easy.”
“Figured it out now. Can do one on circuits or tools.”
“One's enough to graduate. Hell, even grads couldn't match your precision... Sweet-talk the boss, maybe he'll unlock your collar?”
Allen countered with a question of his own, powering on the terminal tucked in his clothes.
“Know why one rune letter's the graduation benchmark?”
“...?”
Vito's face twisted in wary curiosity as Allen thrust the terminal forward. It played a video, and Vito's intrigued gaze hardened to ice.
Onscreen: an assistant, said to have left for another region, crumbling to dust as mana output overwhelmed him.
Vito's eyes bulged. He killed the power, stammered demands at Allen, glancing around like a man fleeing a monster.
“...”
Allen just watched silently. Vito clawed his hair, then hung his head.
“Then what about this? My collar's got no explosive. Better to keep 'em functional if you're just gonna kill us anyway, right?”
“Corner a rat, it bites the cat. And we're far deadlier than rats.”
“...”
Deep down, Vito had suspected. Now his buried doubts had surfaced, fully formed.
“Fuck...”
His face twisted with a storm of emotions. Vito got it now—why one rune letter marked "graduation."
To slaves dreaming of climbing ranks, it was a ladder rung upward. To Nobak, ripe fruit ready for harvest.
Vito clutched his head and slumped against the wall. His legs and arms trembled wildly.
“Liked that mana training for eye and brain boosts—thought it mercy. Turns out you were just fertilizing the crop.”
“The assistant and workers from that raid—doesn't it strike you as odd? Heard any rumors?”
Vito's head snapped up at Allen's words. They'd whispered escape plans cautiously enough for Allen's ears—but Nobak's? No doubt.
It all fit. The clinic was Nobak's fish farm, and the owner had no intention of releasing his stock.
“Then we should warn the others... Nah, pointless. The dead ones probably snitched too.”
Secrets ceased being secrets once shared. Betrayers always came from within.
“What's your plan from here?”
Allen murmured in Vito's ear amid his turmoil. The decision came swift.
“Fine. What do I do?”
“You drive, right?”
“Obviously. Anything else?”
“I'll stash plates in the engine room. Engrave the generators direct too.”
“That's why you signaled me.”
Allen nodded. Fortunately, Vito folded easily.
“Sneak gear from B2 as you can—circuit shards, part scraps, whatever. I'll prep over the week.”
“Wait that long? Oh, right—the party with the locals. Wait—collars?”
“Get the keys from Nobak.”
“How?”
Vito's brows and mouth twisted wide in disbelief.
Allen replied calmly.
“He's got my life as hostage. I'll take his in collateral.”